


when i make the wave, you ride it

by seditonem



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe Where I Hit Myself Repeatedly In The Head, M/M, Organized Crime, they're bikers so it's not really organised though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seditonem/pseuds/seditonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ragnar’s motorbike still scared the hell out of Athelstan, though he was wise enough not to mention it anymore. The first time he’d said anything, the rest of the guys just laughed at him, cheeks ruddy with beer and the cold wind, and Athelstan felt like a kid at a party he wasn’t invited to. Which was not entirely inaccurate. " </p><p>(aka, biker au with semi-organised crime. semi-season 1 compliant. but also, y'know, au.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when i make the wave, you ride it

**Author's Note:**

> honestly officer, i swear i was only trying to write a couple of pages about some dumb au where they ride bikes. i have no idea what this is. 
> 
> (disclaimers etc, non profit blah blah blah, i don't have a beta so sorry if there are any errors.)
> 
> hurried update to disclaimer: i know very little about the church apart from that i enjoy evensong, so i hope i haven't offended anyone.

Ragnar’s motorbike still scared the hell out of Athelstan, though he was wise enough not to mention it anymore. The first time he’d said anything, the rest of the guys just laughed at him, cheeks ruddy with beer and the cold wind, and Athelstan felt like a kid at a party he wasn’t invited to. Which was not entirely inaccurate.

The first time he’d ridden the Harley, half-stunned and only just holding onto Ragnar’s leather jacket with his hands tied, the whole world had been spinning, his ears ringing as they left the quiet town in the dark of the night. His eyes were still red from the mace that one of the men had sprayed all over, and someone had hit him on the temple with something hard. There was a long line of blood that reached down to his neck, and it dried itchy against his skin as they rode through the quiet night air.

 

* * *

 

 

There was no way of excusing what happened, Athelstan knew.

And it had happened like this: he’d been at an informal Church meeting after the Easter service, having a cup of tea with the Reverend and some of the benefactors, when the door had been kicked in and a group of men in black leather jackets and Halloween masks had rushed in. They’d surveyed the scene, made a decision, and terrorised the rest of the congregation. For some reason, there’d been mace sprayed, someone had an asthma attack, and then Athelstan was hauled out of the room as they left. A hard hit to the head and he’d been forced behind one of the men on the bike, his hands tied so he had no choice but to hold on for dear life.

They hadn’t even apologised later on. That was what Athelstan was most annoyed about. Once he’d been assured that it wasn’t religious persecution (though the rest of the gang did poke fun at him about his beliefs endlessly), he was left with the realisation that the attack had been aimless, really.

“What else is there to do around here?” Ragnar had asked him when he finally got up the courage to talk about it, answering a question with a question. It was a habit that Athelstan found maddening. “And what kind of name is Athelstan, anyway?”

“What kind of name is Ragnar?” he’d bit back, anger making him daring, and Ragnar had laughed, looking pleased. After a few minutes, feeling awkward, Athelstan had explained about his parents, their twin loves of medieval literature and the Church, and then felt stupid for trying to make a man like Ragnar understand.

 

* * *

 

 

When the police interviewed him, he lied. He wasn’t sure why he lied, only that he didn’t believe prison would work on those men. The interview was only cursory, anyway – in a small town like theirs, strange things happened, and the police almost treated the whole thing as a joke. A group of middle-aged rich people terrorised by a biker gang in the middle of rural England wasn’t really a big deal, especially when only watches and bank notes were taken. Nothing important, nothing those people wouldn’t make back in a week on the salaries they earned. Athelstan could tell the officer taking notes on his answers was only doodling in his notebook, anyway, and once he noticed that he lost all will to cooperate.

When the officer left, he remembered he knew exactly why he lied, and then didn’t want to think about that reason anymore, so he went to bed.

It was the first time in his life he broke any rules.

 

* * *

 

 

The church group didn’t say anything, but they treated him differently. No more friendly hellos in the street, no more offers of tea and cake, and Athelstan found himself standing outside the meeting hall for ten minutes, his hand on the door handle, before he decided he couldn’t go in. They looked so dull, he thought, suddenly, and thinking it felt like a sin somehow. Something in him knew that they’d politely indicate that he wasn’t welcome, anyway; since the gang was one of several who passed through the village at regular intervals, and they wore masks to cover their faces, Athelstan was the only one who could identify them. There was no CCTV, no licence plate numbers taken, nothing. No one really expected that sort of thing, so there'd been no precautions taken. 

And he’d just told the police that they’d driven him several miles out of town, left him in a field, and made off without giving a hint as to who they might be. After all, he’d said, feeling frustrated with the bored police officer, it’s not as if they were Hell’s Angels, wearing brightly decorated jackets.

That was only partly a lie. The men who rode through the night with Ragnar wore dark ravens on their jackets, only visible in the bright light.

 

* * *

 

 

They hadn’t driven him several miles out of town. They’d driven him to a cliff edge, then pulled him down crumbling steps to a cave where there was a bonfire, and laughter, and a lot of beer. Athelstan didn’t understand why on earth they hadn’t just left him somewhere – surely they knew he’d be able to remember their faces and identify them?

The cold truth settled in his belly seconds later: they were planning to kill him. Maybe it was Satanism, he didn’t know, maybe they were going to carve him up and eat him. Was cannibalism the new trend? He panicked silently, trying not to struggle too much after one of them cuffed him around the head again.

“Stop hitting the man of Christ,” another said, pulling off his mask. He was broad-shouldered, tan in a way that suggested he lived his life outdoors and not in an office, with eyes that looked too bright against his skin.

“I don’t know why you brought him here, Ragnar,” said the one who’d hit him.

“He might be helpful, Rollo,” Ragnar shrugged, giving an easy grin that Athelstan began to recognise in the days after as being deceptively sly.  Rollo snorted, gave Athelstan a hard look, and went to get himself a beer.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” Athelstan said, and realised he sounded weary.

“Not if I can help it, no,” Ragnar shrugged. The other men had made their way to the bonfire, to the women who were sitting there, singing loud songs, and they had been left relatively alone. “Not if you’re not going to make life difficult for me,” he amended, and Athelstan felt sick.

That was the real reason he hadn't said anything, the reason he sometimes lay awake at night in his house, feeling as if the walls were watching him. Ragnar’s men hadn’t touched him violently since the hits to the head, and no one had looked at him with menace, but Athelstan knew if he said anything, there’d be a knife against his throat just when he wasn’t expecting it.

It felt cowardly, lying, but he was angry and he was scared. With a few words, Ragnar had trapped him.

In that way, he supposed, he was a lot like a prisoner.

 

* * *

 

 

After the bonfire and the thinly veiled threat, he'd met a woman who gave him a look like tempered steel. Ragnar kissed her without any regard for whoever might have been watching, and Athelstan flushed, looking away quickly. 

"You brought someone back?" the woman said, sounding annoyed. She pinched Ragnar's ear and he batted her hands away playfully. 

"He looked interesting, Lagertha," he admitted, and danced out of her reach. "Besides, maybe he'll be fun." 

Lagertha gave Athelstan another long look and made a noise of disbelief. "He's from the Church. You'll be lucky if he doesn't talk your ear off about gay rights and commandments." 

"I'm a Protestant, actually. Much more tolerant than Catholics, apparently," Athelstan replied without thinking, and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth in shock. Ragnar just laughed, turning back to Lagertha.

"See? Of ye of little faith."

Hours later, after sitting awkwardly near the bonfire as people in various states of inebriation came over to stare at him and ask awkward questions, Athelstan had been driven home, trying not to think about how everything felt different as the new day began to dawn. Ragnar had dropped him on the outskirts of town, and Athelstan had begun the long walk back to his house, down winding country roads, pressing himself into prickly hedges as herds of sheep with raspberry-cheeked farmers guiding them went past, bleating and greeting indiscriminately.

Of course, Ragnar knew where he lived.

Of course, it no longer felt like his sanctuary when Ragnar began to visit.

 

* * *

 

He would arrive whenever he pleased, just as Athelstan was beginning a new chapter of his book, or wrestling with some tricky translations, and bang on the door until he was let in. (Let in was a very loose term – he barged past Athelstan as if he owned the house, and soon Athelstan started standing to one side instead of bothering to try and keep him out.) The first time had been such a shock that Athelstan hadn’t even known what to do, and had stood mute in the kitchen while Ragnar opened a beer and leaned back against the counter, his worn leather jacket slung over the kitchen table. The daylight revealed what night had only hinted at: the hard lines of muscle underneath the threadbare white t-shirt, smudged dirt underneath short nails, scars and burn marks like notches on the corded muscles of his arms.

“Catch, priest,” Ragnar said, and Athelstan caught the beer on reflex.

“I’m not a priest,” he replied, indignant, and then amended his answer. “I was going to be one, but it never happened.”  Ragnar raised an eyebrow, indicating he should continue, but Athelstan thinned his lips into a line and took a seat instead. If he was going to have unwanted guests, he was at least going to be comfortable. “And my name is Athelstan.”

“What do you do all day, Athelstan?” Ragnar looked around the kitchen, his expression almost interested; “because you clearly don’t work nine to five.”

There was a pause as Athelstan tried to work out how best to answer. The obvious conclusion was that if Ragnar knew where to find him, then he probably knew how to find out a lot more, and there was no point trying to play games with a man who had threatened to kill him. “I’m a writer,” he said, fingers tapping on the unopened beer can.

“And what do you write about?” Ragnar sat down opposite him at the kitchen table, looking too full of life for the white surfaces and polished pans to compete with.

“People,” Athelstan said, feeling annoyed. “Why don’t you just read one of my books?”

“Probably too long,” Ragnar grinned, “and not enough sex.” Athelstan flushed. It was true, though he didn’t want to admit it; writing about anything other than historical events felt foreign to him, and he’d certainly never ventured into adding anything sexual into his work. He hardly had the experience.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Ragnar leaning back in his chair, Athelstan bolt upright in his, until Ragnar insisted that he finish his beer, and produced another one as soon as Athelstan had. Several beers later, he left, without warning, and Athelstan sat at his kitchen table for a while longer, staring at the slight smudge of oil that Ragnar had left on the otherwise pristine surface.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Ragnar was not content to simply sit at the kitchen table and stare at Athelstan until he felt compelled to make conversation. Sometimes he would knock heavily on the door, his presence blocking the doorway until Athelstan got his coat and followed him out. Usually they took the bike, but the times Athelstan began to realise he actually enjoyed were the ones where they simply walked.

 

* * *

 

 

“How does a writer of historical accounts of the medieval ages, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, own a nice house like this in the country?” Ragnar asked, one evening. They were sitting in the front garden, hidden from the lane by a large hedge and surrounded by sweet peas and the ivy that slowly and indiscriminately claimed more of the brickwork year by year.

“Belonged to my parents,” Athelstan shrugged, leaning back on his elbows in the grass. The sun peeked through clouds occasionally, making Ragnar squint slightly at him. Athelstan did not ask how Ragnar knew his age.

“Where are they?”

“Dead,” Athelstan said, flatly. “Along with my siblings.” There was silence, and Ragnar did not press for details. Details that were still a little too raw for Athelstan to think about, especially on a beautiful evening.

They drank beers as the light slowly began to fade, late afternoon passing contentedly into a warm evening. As the first stars began to twinkle, they made their way down country lanes to the forest, Ragnar’s jacket draped over his shoulders like a cloak. The forest held a bonfire at its heart, and people clustered around it, roasting hamburgers and sausages over the coals by the edges. Athelstan steeled himself for another evening of sidelong glances and jibes, but everyone seemed too preoccupied with having a good time to pay him much mind. It was midsummer’s eve, he remembered.

Ragnar’s wife, Lagertha, and their children were there, and Athelstan endured another bout of questioning about the church from Bjorn, who seemed horrified by the hours of Sunday school and psalms that Athelstan described. Gyda and some of the other girls made flower crowns with forget-me-nots interspersed with daisies, and after a few more beers Athelstan discovered that one had been gently arranged in his curls, much to the amusement of Ragnar.

“Come dance with me, sweet summer queen,” he laughed, the words half sung, and caught Athelstan up into a breathlessly fast waltz around the fire that ended only when Athelstan tripped over someone’s leg and was sent sprawling on the ground, wheezing and burning with embarrassment and happiness.

How was he happy? He wasn’t sure. As he raised himself up on his elbows, watching the people around him, he only knew that these people were a world away from that meeting hall they’d torn him from.

He did not miss the meeting hall so much.

 

* * *

 

 

As autumn crept closer, Athelstan finished his book, sent it off to his editor for the umpteenth critique, and pruned back the ivy from around his door. The police did cursory interviews with Ragnar and Floki, but found nothing to charge them with. The investigation, which had never seemed to get off its feet in the first place, was reduced to filing, and Athelstan noticed the people in the village slipped up occasionally and greeted him as they once had. He smiled back, but there was no real feeling in it.

He stopped locking his front door.

 

* * *

 

 

Winter brought icy roads and a ride that made Athelstan swear off motorbikes forever. Pressed up against Ragnar’s back, hands in the butter-soft leather jacket pockets, he felt the bike shudder and skid as they turned a corner, the headlights illuminating the hedge as it hurtled towards him. Ragnar made a sound that was almost frustrated, and Athelstan found himself pushed from the seat, somehow rolling away from the bike. His shoulder collided painfully with the tar as he hit the ground, and there was ice and grit in his mouth. As he lay on his back for a second, he realised he was praying out loud. 

“Fuck,” Ragnar said, quietly, his voice sounding muffled. Athelstan scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt off his knuckles and shoulders, and turned around to find the bike half on top of Ragnar, crushing one of his legs. His stomach clenched and he fought not to throw up.

“Oh my God,” he blurted, before he could stop himself, and ran over.

“Don’t touch anything!” Ragnar shouted, blood dripping down his chin. “I can’t tell if anything’s broken yet.” He prodded experimentally at his leg, then gritted his teeth and levered the bike up enough to get out. A puddle of blood was beginning to form, pink at the edges where it met the rapidly melting ice.  

“Are you alright? Where’s all that blood coming from?” Athelstan began, and then realised he’d kept talking, the words rapidly becoming a babble. Ragnar pushed himself slowly to his feet, testing his weight on his leg and wincing. He wiped the blood off his chin, spitting more onto the road. 

“Bit my tongue,” he admitted, sounding annoyed, and limped over. “We need to get home.” Athelstan found himself being dragged down the road – how was Ragnar stronger than him even after a crash? – and around another corner. Out of the dark appeared a dim light in a window, and he realised they were at Ragnar’s house.

He had never been to Ragnar’s house.

 

* * *

 

 

“How could you be so stupid?”

Lagertha shouting was still the most terrifying sound Athelstan had ever heard. He flinched, and then wished he was dead when she turned to him. “And you! Getting on that bike behind him when you knew it was slippery out there and the extra weight would unbalance him!” She shook his shoulders, then her fingers tightened on his jacket. “Don’t be so reckless with your lives,” she sighed, sounding more tired than angry, and turned away. “Come on, we’re going to the hospital.” Athelstan wasn't sure if he was more afraid of her disapproval or her anger. 

“It’s not that bad,” Ragnar said, sounding almost petulant.

“Watch the kids,” Lagertha bit out in Athelstan’s general direction, then gripped Ragnar by the back of the neck and marched him out of the door. Over the sounds of their continued arguing, Athelstan heard the protesting cough of their old 4x4 starting up, and only breathed out when it faded a little as the car drove off.

“What did Dad do now?” Bjorn asked, appearing out of nowhere so abruptly that Athelstan nearly jumped. He frowned at the blood on Athelstan’s jacket, then pulled on a big coat and wellies from the cupboard under the stairs.

“Why are you – ” Athelstan began, and Bjorn shoved a pair of fleece-lined gloves at him.

“If he crashed, then we need to go move the bike off the road,” he explained, as if Athelstan were the child.

Athelstan stood in the kitchen alone for a second, clutching the gloves, and then followed Bjorn out into the cold evening. His shoulder was still stinging, he realised, but he welcomed the pain. He was still alive, after all. The only reason he had not been hurt more badly, and that Ragnar was on his way to the hospital, he realised, was that Ragnar had pushed him off the bike.

Athelstan was not entirely sure how to feel about that. He and Bjorn trudged down the road, and together they managed to haul the big Harley up onto its wheels in the dim light of a torch. Slowly, and with much complaining about how weak Athelstan was from Bjorn, they walked it back to the garage.

Midnight came and went, and Athelstan dozed on the couch by the huge fireplace, his head lolling back against cushions, mobile phone still clutched in one hand. At two in the morning Lagertha called, explaining in a terse voice that Ragnar’s leg was fine, he’d got away with a few stitches and a bruised ego, and they’d be home soon. Distantly, Athelstan could hear Ragnar complaining about how long the whole thing had taken before Lagertha hung up. 

Much later, as Athelstan left the warm embrace of the Lothbrok house, he followed the road back to where the bike had crashed. Something had been nagging him for a while as he’d sat on that sofa, but it was only when he crouched down to look at the road that he realised what it was.

The rest of the road was well gritted, better so than the roads in town. Only the area where they had crashed was free of it. He breathed out slowly. Someone had purposefully cleared the grit from the sharp bend in the road, so that a thick layer of black ice had formed.

 

* * *

 

 

On one of their walks, Ragnar had asked why he hadn't become a priest. Athelstan pulled a face, taking a drink of water while he arranged his thoughts. 

"I wanted so badly to be part of an order," he began, "just to serve, to help people. But I kept seeing things that made it impossible to do that. I was always taught that God is all loving, and yet so many people were using faith to hurt other people. I couldn't reconcile my idea of the Lord with theirs. So it simply became easier for me to leave, and continue to practice my faith in a way that made sense to me." He frowned, feeling as if he hadn't explained himself well. 

Ragnar had given him a look that he couldn't quite figure out, and then continued walking. 

 

* * *

 

 

Athelstan was not particularly surprised when Ragnar insisted that he join the family for Christmas; the Lothbroks did not so much celebrate in a religious fashion as use it as an excuse to throw a huge party that lasted for the entire day, especially since it turned out to be Ragnar’s birthday and his wedding anniversary with Lagertha. Everyone who Athelstan had ever seen at one of the various gatherings on the beach or in the forest turned up, bringing more alcohol and food than he thought was strictly necessary.

He took the chance to escape outside and build a snowman with Bjorn. It was unusual for them to have a white Christmas, so they decided to make the most of it. With increasingly icy fingers, they packed together enough snow to fashion something that looked vaguely like the pictures they’d seen, but Bjorn pulled a face, clearly dissatisfied.

“You need a drink,” he announced, and Athelstan was horrified when Bjorn returned with two plastic cups of hot mulled wine.

“You’re not old enough to drink,” he protested, and Bjorn just rolled his eyes.

“My parents think it’s important to have a tolerance.” He finished his cup much faster than Athelstan, and returned for another one. Athelstan did admit that he had a point – it was very important to be able to hold your liquor when the Lothbroks were around. He steeled himself, and returned inside. The chill air had made delaying any longer an impossibility, even swaddled as he was with scarves and jackets.

Besides, once he was inside, it wasn’t actually so bad. Lagertha refilled his cup, despite his protestations, and insisted he dance with her. “I’ve got two left feet,” Athelstan complained, trying not to spill the wine all over her beautiful dress. The dark green made her skin seem very fair, and she looked as if she was glowing as she spun him.

“Nonsense, Athelstan, you’re just shy,” she teased, as if that would make him _less_ shy. “Besides, you have to dance. You’re part of the family now.”

He felt his cheeks glow. It was just down to the wine, he told himself.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Athelstan jolted out of sleep as someone climbed into bed beside him, curling an arm around his waist before he could move.

“You’re warm,” Ragnar commented, pressing the cold bristles of his beard into the curve of Athelstan’s shoulder.

“What are you  _doing_?” Athelstan hissed, trying to wriggle out of the embrace and failing utterly. “How did you even get in?”

“You never lock your door anymore,” Ragnar reminded him, “a fact that I am most grateful for. And I just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

Athelstan snorted with disbelief. “As if. You don’t live near here, you don’t drink near here, and your bike is still being fixed.” How the specifics of Ragnar's drinking habits had become part of his life, he was still unsure. 

Ragnar sighed heavily, as if explaining was a chore. “Alright then. I walked.” He paused, pressing his cold limbs into the warmth of Athelstan’s back, and seemed about to say more.

“You walked to my house, despite your stitches and strict doctor’s orders not to move your leg too much, to climb into bed with me?” Athelstan asked, feeling as if he was trapped in some surreal dream. He could feel his body heat being leeched away, and was petulantly annoyed about it. The house was cold in winter, and the nest of warmth he had created in his bed was his one triumph over the ancient heating system.

The arm around his waist tightened, and Ragnar pulled him closer. “My leg healed,” he said, and Athelstan was aware of the feel of each of his words against the fragile skin beneath his ear; “I was drinking in town. And I walked your way instead of mine.” He rubbed his nose against Athelstan’s skin, laughing at the noise of surprise it tore out of Athelstan. “How stupid of me.”

Athelstan sighed heavily. Ragnar smelt of cigarettes and whiskey, like a night out that Athelstan had always persuaded himself was a bad idea. There was obviously no getting rid of him.

“You’re cold and I hate you,” he said, flatly, after a while. Ragnar murmured something too quiet to hear, and buried his face against Athelstan’s neck. He fell asleep moments later.

Athelstan hardly slept at all, aware of almost every minute in the small hours of the morning, but when he became aware of the light creeping from under his curtains he realised he’d drifted off, and that Ragnar had left.

 

* * *

 

 

On New Year’s Eve he was dragged away from his house again to an empty field where Rollo had organised a fireworks display with Floki, who Athelstan had always tried to avoid. Despite the fact that everyone else seemed at ease with having Athelstan around, he knew for a fact that Floki had questioned whether he would keep his mouth shut on numerous occasions.

It appeared that the festivities put no dampener on such misgivings, and he found himself in terse conversation with the man for a good five minutes before Ragnar appeared.

Athelstan breathed a sigh of relief, and tried to find Lagertha and the kids.

 

* * *

 

In the new year, Athelstan ran into a man he’d met a couple of times at the Church group, a wealthy businessman who he’d never liked. They made awkward small talk until Athelstan pretended he had other errands to run, and he returned home feeling uneasy.

The reason for his unease remained elusive, even as the cause of another feeling presented itself at his kitchen table. Ragnar was already sitting there when he came in to unpack his groceries, his boots up on a corner that Athelstan realised was permanently scuffed from previous occurrences of the same action. He really had to start locking his door again, even if Ragnar seemed to bring sunlight into the kitchen with him. 

“Who were you talking to in town?” Ragnar asked, after their seventh beer. They had walked to Ragnar’s house, where Lagertha had presented a lamb stew that had been worth the chilly January trek. Athelstan was already wobbly with drink, his vision blurring at the edges. While he had been drinking more recently than he ever had in his life, he still couldn’t keep up with Ragnar.

“Guy from Church,” he slurred, “never liked him.” He paused, swallowing thickly. “Always boasted about his mansion up near the coast.” Ragnar made an interested sound, non-committal, and Athelstan continued without thinking about it. “No security, he said, all the codes set to zero zero zero, and all his wife’s jewellery just lying about. He was in his cups at a Church meeting! Utterly appalling.” He made wide gestures to try and convey his disgust, and Ragnar laughed, pushing another beer into his hands. “No, no, I couldn’t – ”

“You can,” Ragnar soothed, “I insist.”

In the end, Athelstan couldn’t walk home, and found it difficult to protest when Ragnar simply pulled him into the large bed he shared with Lagertha, who was already drifting off to sleep, a copy of a Swedish murder mystery still in one hand. Athelstan shifted uncomfortably in his jeans until Ragnar pulled them off roughly, undoing the fly with one hand and an ease that confounded Athelstan’s pickled brain. He realised he was half hard, his cock pressed against Ragnar’s leg, and he blushed, trying to move away. Ragnar would have none of it, simply pulled him closer, making soothing noises until Athelstan quieted, his tiredness overcoming his body’s reaction.

He slept deeply, one of Ragnar’s hands tangled in the curls of his hair.

Early in the morning, awkward and embarrassed, he extricated himself from the layers of quilts and rugs and made his escape. Ragnar made a noise of displeasure, but only rolled over against Lagertha and buried his face against her chest. The book in her hand fell noiselessly onto the thick rugs that covered the floor. Athelstan watched them for a minute, feeling something like – what was it, jealousy perhaps? – burning deep inside him. The ease of that movement made him feel very alone.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, the memory of that drunken night stung him sharply as he stood in the local newsagent’s, listening to two old ladies from the village gossiping about a burglary.

 

* * *

 

“How could you?”

That was all he managed, initially, but after that first sentence the words simply tumbled out of his mouth. “You took what I told you, in confidence, and you robbed that man! You disgust me, and you’ve betrayed me. How am I supposed to look him in the eye ever again?” Ragnar interrupted him with a hand over his mouth, but Athelstan was incensed. He slapped Ragnar’s hand away, storming around the kitchen like a small, localised tornado. “Robbing those people from the Church group was one thing, but this? You invaded his home – how will his wife ever feel comfortable there again?”

“No one in the world needs that much money,” Ragnar cut in, his voice icy, and Athelstan stared at him in disbelief.

“How can you say that? How can you make judgements about people you don’t even know?” he said, his voice hollow.

Ragnar shrugged, looking almost bored. “You hardly knew that man, yet you said you disliked him. Were you not making a judgement on someone then too?”

“Don’t twist my words to suit your purposes,” Athelstan shouted, feeling bitter and somehow very sad.

The kitchen was very quiet for a while. _I trusted him_ , Athelstan thought, suddenly. Despite everything, despite their horrendous first meeting and the way his life had changed since then, he had accepted this strange friendship, had come to trust Ragnar’s presence in his life.

And he had forgotten that beneath it all, Ragnar Lothbrok was simply a man who had thought nothing of threatening his life as easily as one might comment on the weather.

“Get out of my house.” His voice was quiet at first, and then he was repeating it, shouting. He moved forwards, intending to shove Ragnar, but his hands were caught in a grip that he knew wasn’t meant to hurt. Athelstan found himself shoved back against the kitchen counter, cold marble biting against his skin where his shirt had come untucked, and Ragnar’s mouth pressed against his.

He froze instantly, arms going limp with shock. “I won’t leave,” Ragnar said, whispering it into Athelstan’s mouth, and Athelstan wanted to give up, to lie down and sleep forever, but they were kissing instead, slow at first, and then rough and angry. Ragnar’s hands moved to his waist, pulling him painfully close, and Athelstan gave up trying to hold onto anything else.

“You’re a criminal, and you’ve made me complicit in your crimes. You’ve used me, and I can’t trust you,” he whispered, and Ragnar made soothing noises, kissing away the sting of the words like rain falling on sparks.

“I am sorry,” he said, cupping Athelstan’s face in his hands. “You are dear to me. You are dear to _us_. I do not want to drive you away. But I am the way that I am, and I do what I have done all my life.”

Athelstan pushed his hands away, but didn’t stop Ragnar from running his hands down his shoulders. He wanted so badly to lean into the embrace, but he kept himself back. The whole situation was wrong, he thought, and said as much.

“We have different ideas of right and wrong,” Ragnar told him, as one might have told a child; “maybe one day you will reconcile those ideas.” He kissed Athelstan’s forehead, ruffling his hair, and moved away slowly.

There was an emptiness that remained when he left, and Athelstan moved up to his room in a shuffling fashion, wrapped himself in blankets, and tried to understand how he had fallen in love with a man who was not entirely trustworthy without even realising it.   

 

* * *

 

The following evening, Athelstan was interrupted in the middle of carefully considering one of the comments his editor, Sarah, had left in handwriting that could only be described as miniscule. Three sharp knocks jolted him out of his reverie, and he looked up to see Lagertha standing at the door of his study.

His heart dropped into his stomach. She was there because of what had happened with Ragnar, he was sure, and the sick feeling seemed to spread through his veins.

“The door was open,” Lagertha said, as she walked over and handed him a thick sheepskin jacket. “We’re going to the coast. Would you like to come?” Athelstan suddenly realised Bjorn and Gyda were playing tag along the corridor outside, and that Lagertha was smiling at him. She was very beautiful when she wasn’t shouting at him, he thought distantly, and tried not to blush when she waved a hand in front of his eyes.

“Sure,” he said, without thinking, and she squeezed his shoulder affectionately before hauling him out of the house. They bundled into the 4x4, which was stuffed with blankets, drinks and barbeque supplies. It was dark already, and Gyda fell asleep against Athelstan’s shoulder as the car rumbled through the velvet night.

He could feel his heart palpitate painfully as they approached the beach, the bonfire already visible in the distance, but then he was carrying blankets and trying to outrun Bjorn and laughing all at the same time. Someone at the bonfire was playing guitar, a haunting melody, and he was greeted with hugs and smiles. In the dim flickering light, Athelstan could see where Ragnar sat, his eyes lit by flames.

They regarded each other for a moment, and then Ragnar smiled, nodded ever so slightly, and Athelstan found he had no choice but to walk over, hand out blankets, and sit down so close that their legs touched. His body was simply conditioned this way, for this closeness, despite how little time had passed since they had met.

“You are still angry with me,” Ragnar commented, as Torstein and a blonde-haired girl Athelstan had never seen whirled past them in a maddeningly fast jig.

“Yes,” Athelstan sighed, but he still smiled when Ragnar elbowed him gently. He couldn’t deny that while he was sitting on a beach with a bunch of thieves and criminals, he also felt happy. There was no way to explain it, he realised. They sat like that for hours, talking occasionally about things that later Athelstan could not recall. Late in the night, Ragnar’s brother Rollo came to join them, smelling more of beer than a brewery vat.

“Why do you still keep him around?” he asked Ragnar, gesturing to Athelstan. Ragnar gave his sly smile, ruffled Athelstan’s curls, and shrugged.

“He has his uses.” He put his head slightly to one side, eyeing Rollo’s beer. “And I don’t trust you to watch my children.” Rollo snorted, looking put out, and left them alone.

Bjorn hung about his neck, sprawled over his lap half asleep as the evening turned to early morning, and eventually Lagertha came to collect him up.

“We need to get home,” she reminded Ragnar, shifting Bjorn’s weight a little and then handing him to Rollo, who trudged off in the direction of the dunes where the cars were parked. Athelstan was still amazed she could lift him, but Lagertha seemed to have more than average strength in every aspect of her life.

“I’ll carry Gyda to the car,” Ragnar agreed, and then turned to Athelstan. “You will come home with us?” Lagertha took Ragnar’s hand, and they both looked at him in a way that he could only interpret as an invitation.

Athelstan blushed deep, hoping the darkness would hide the colour. “No, I couldn’t, I’ve got work to finish tomorrow.”

Ragnar made a face. “You don’t work. You sit and pick at a keyboard, telling people things about other people who are long dead.” He ruffled Athelstan’s hair and Lagertha laughed at the two of them. They seemed unbothered by his awkward refusal. “But very well. I will give you a lift.”

“Please, not on the bike,” begged Athelstan. “I’d rather walk from your house.”

“As you wish,” Lagertha shrugged, and they slowly collected up rugs and plastic bags of empty cans until the beach looked almost untouched. Athelstan checked the time and immediately wished he hadn’t; it was way past an acceptable hour to go to bed. He considered simply staying awake and working through the day.

After a slow car journey where he napped intermittently, Athelstan helped Ragnar tuck Gyda and Bjorn into bed, placing the latest in Gyda’s collection of stones with holes through them on the windowsill next to her bed. She always said that you could see other worlds through the holes, and Athelstan was tempted to check. Without thinking why, he whispered a prayer over the two of them as he left the room, and though Ragnar noticed, he said nothing.

“Get home safe, Athelstan,” Lagertha whispered, trying not to wake the children, and kissed his cheek. He tried to protest when she wrapped a scarf around most of his face, but she just hushed him and pushed him in the direction of the door.

He only walked alone for a few minutes before he heard someone following him, and then Ragnar was beside him.

“You should just stay,” he said, “Stay with us next time.”

“What? And sleep in the same bed as the two of you?” Athelstan snapped, suddenly angry.

“Well, why not?” Ragnar asked, sounding bemused. He pulled up short as Athelstan stopped walking.

“Do you hold no value in your marriage? Do you think it’s acceptable to simply kiss me just because it’s convenient, or invite me to share a bed with you and your wife?”

“I didn’t kiss you because it was convenient,” Ragnar replied, his voice harder now. Then he let out a frustrated huff of breath. “It’s not like Lagertha would  _mind_ , anyway. She’s fine with sharing.” He looked at Athelstan’s shocked expression. “We didn’t get married in a Church, after all.”

Athelstan made a noise that was part indignation, part horror, and part frustration. “That’s not the point!” he shouted, and stormed off down the lane. Ragnar jogged slowly after him, and when he wrapped his arm around Athelstan’s shoulders, Athelstan didn’t bother to shake him off.

 

* * *

 

For a few weeks Athelstan did not see much of the Lothbrok family, and he found himself a strange mix of relieved and lonely. He travelled down to London to finalise the chapter layout of his book with Sarah, as the deadline was fast approaching, and spent a few days walking around his favourite churches. While once they had filled him with awe and reverence for God, he realised that he now appreciated the architecture more than the feeling, and the awe was for man-made things. It wasn’t that his faith had left him, it was just changing, and he wasn’t sure where it was taking him.

He prayed for a while after that, but his heart seemed elsewhere.

Returning home only caused more confusion. After a day of hearing nothing from the outside world, he lost patience. He unearthed the old bicycle in his shed from his university years, checked the wheels and gears, and left the house. What started out as a way to stretch his legs quickly turned into an unbearable need to see the Lothbroks’ house again, just from a distance. Just so he could judge his feelings.

As he cycled around the bend where he and Ragnar had crashed and skidded, the smell of smoke filled the air. He pulled on the brakes, jolted to a halt, and narrowly managed to press himself into the hedge as a police car came past. Panicking, Athelstan cycled madly after it.

The fire crew had obviously done their work by the time he arrived, as the house was still standing, but it was badly singed and the beautiful climbing wisteria that had adorned the front of the house was completely gone. Athelstan stood at the gate, clutching the handlebars of his bike and expecting the worst.

“Athelstan!”

Bjorn was waving from the other side of the yard, where he, his sister and parents were huddled together. Ragnar was in deep conversation with a police officer, but he looked over instantly, his expression changing from panicked to relieved so quickly Athelstan was almost sure he’d imagined the transition. He made his way over, leaving the bike against the gate.

“What happened?” he asked, staring at the house.

“Someone started a fire early this morning,” Lagertha said, darkly. “Someone intended our house to burn down, with us inside it.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Athelstan gaped. The Lothbroks were a tempestuous family, but he couldn’t imagine anyone purposefully putting them in harm’s way.

“Who indeed?” Bjorn had his arms crossed over his chest, and his tone sounded far too adult for any young boy. Lagertha gave him a look that Athelstan couldn’t interpret and cuffed him on the shoulder.

There was something more going on than they were telling him, Athelstan thought, and realised he felt a little bitter to be left out. It was not entirely surprising, given his absence. “I’m glad you’re all alright,” he said, to try and push the thought away, and Gyda wound her arms around his waist. Her hair smelt of smoke, he noticed, and wanted to hurt whoever had sparked the fire.

The air hung close around them. It smelt like a thunderstorm.

 

* * *

 

There was an abrupt change of mood in the village the next week when Athelstan went to get the paper.

“Good on you, dear, for standing up for us. I know it can’t have been easy,” one of the old women from the Church group said, catching his arm as he tried to leave the post office.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, confused.

“It’s all over the local paper,” she said, handing him her copy. The Herald’s headline announced SUSPECT ARRESTED FOR TERRORISING LOCALS.

Athelstan blanched, reading the article in a tearing hurry. There was no mention of Ragnar’s name, he realised, rereading paragraphs to check. The photo next to the headline was not of a man with the sides of his head shaved, nor with piercing blue eyes – instead it was a man Athelstan had never seen before.

“Thank you,” Athelstan said, still staring at the paper and patting the old woman absently on the shoulder as he left. As soon as he was around the corner he broke into a full run.

When he arrived at the Lothbroks’ house – still charred – Ragnar was already outside, cleaning his bike. He grinned when Athelstan stopped in front of him, panting from the exercise and practically throwing the paper at him.

“You’re welcome,” Ragnar said, sounding smug.

“For what? What did you do?” Athelstan wheezed. “I never said anything to the police!”

“I know that.” Ragnar wiped grease and dirt off his hands and stood up slowly. “I merely dropped some hints into receiving ears.”

“Who is this man?” Athelstan pressed, pointing to the picture. Ragnar’s face clouded over a little.

“He goes by Haraldson. He’s been a problem for us for a few months now. Said we were invading his ‘turf’.”

Athelstan suddenly understood. “He’s the one who set your house on fire.” Ragnar’s tight jaw told him he was right. “He scraped the grit off the road that night we crashed.”

“He won’t be trouble for us anymore.”

A moment’s pause, and Athelstan frowned. “You knew about the grit?” he asked, confused.

“I grit that road myself,” explained Ragnar. He rubbed at the rough stubble on his jaw as Athelstan stood there, still trying to get his breath back.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Athelstan asked, after a while.

“I didn’t want you to worry.” Ragnar put down the rag he’d been holding and stretched, his shoulders clicking in their joints. Athelstan muttered a prayer and pushed his sweaty fringe off his face. “Cheer up, lamb of God,” Ragnar grinned, gripping Athelstan’s chin gently. “We’re still alive, after all.”

 

* * *

 

As spring arrived, Athelstan’s book was finalised, and he decided to take a holiday. He went without telling anyone, because the way he felt whenever Ragnar’s hands lingered over his shoulder-blades was making his brain feel foggy. And then there were the continuing offers to share a bed with both Ragnar and Lagertha, which he was running out of excuses to avoid. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to – he wanted to very much, to be certain – it was simply that he had no idea what it would mean afterwards. He had no idea how the children would take it, or what would happen. Perhaps it was just a joke to them now, anyway.  

He’d taken to spending days with the Lothbroks, which confused him, because he still wasn’t sure how Ragnar managed to make any kind of living, especially since he seemed to spend most of his time working out or bothering Athelstan. He knew Lagertha was a vet who specialised in the large livestock in the area, and that Ragnar occasionally repaired vintage motorbikes, but how they had managed to afford such a beautiful house with a sprawling garden was beyond his comprehension.

Probably by robbing other people, Athelstan realised, with a sick feeling, and buried himself in French cathedrals and architecture. He’d travelled when he was younger, just after his family had passed, and the language came back to him quickly. He slept in youth hostels, camped when he could, and his hair grew longer until he could tie it back. His birthday coincided with a visit to Grasse, and he stood in fields of lavender in a daze, hoping his thirtieth year would bring him some sort of clarity.

 

* * *

 

His holiday ended as his promotional tour began: it was a short tour, only a few talks and a couple of book signings, but Athelstan stopped off in London to prepare for it anyway. His old tutor from university made an appearance, and they spent a happy evening in a pub reminiscing and discussing his surprising move from academia to published books.

Athelstan kept his hair long, and the stubble that had eluded him in his younger years now made an appearance. Looking in the mirror, he didn’t quite recognise the face that he saw. He was leaner now, and almost looked his age. Where was the boy who had so passionately read the scripture, so readily defended the word of the Lord? That person felt like he belonged in another time. He still read passages from the Bible, but he wasn’t sure if they were more of a comfort due to their familiarity than their meaning.

When he returned home, the sweet peas were in blossom again, and there was dust on the door handle. He fancied for a second that there were dirty palm prints on his front door, some large and some smaller, but he brushed off the idea quickly and went inside.

The house needed airing, Athelstan noticed immediately. The day was warm enough that he could open all his windows and the back door, which looked out onto a modest square of grass, surrounded by wizened apple trees. Despite his hard work in previous years, they bore nothing but tart mouthfuls, only tolerable when baked in pies with copious amounts of sugar.

He spent the afternoon wiping down surfaces, checking his mail and vacuuming the house. Clean linen went on the bed, clean towels in the now sparkling bathroom, and the noxious remnants of food from the fridge (including one new form of life in a bottle of milk) were bagged and put in the garbage.

The cleaning did nothing to calm him, so he closed the windows again and went for a walk. Despite all his efforts, his feet took him on the most familiar path – the one he and Ragnar had walked most often. Up and over the hill, until trees claimed the skyline and the afternoon gave way to a cool breeze. Athelstan stood at the edge of a cabbage field, staring back the way he had come, and noticed a motorbike had stopped outside his house.

There was only a split second of indecision, and then he was running, careering through the undergrowth and tripping over roots. His heart was racing in his chest, banging against his ribs in a way that he now knew was linked only to Ragnar, and to the golden haze of summer that surrounded him, independent of season.

By the time he reached his house, breathless and sweating, the bike was gone. He stood alone by his front door, and noticed that he had scraped his knuckles on a tree as he ran. They were bleeding a little, and began to sting.         

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Athelstan heard his front door open as the first rays of sun hit the floor of his bedroom. He curled into the covers, his heart squeezing painfully, and waited. Ragnar didn’t waste any time, toeing off his shoes at the door and letting his jacket drop to the ground as he crawled under the covers behind him. He pressed his face against the back of Athelstan’s neck, breathing him in deeply.

“I have missed you,” he murmured, and Athelstan felt the words more than heard them. He tried not to shake, his hands clutching at the covers, but Ragnar wrapped his arm around him to turn him around and that was his undoing.

They clung to each other, Athelstan too desperate to be afraid suddenly, and the kiss was painful and then glorious. He felt his body singing silently in response. “Do not leave again,” Ragnar insisted, pulling on Athelstan’s hair, mouthing down the side of his neck in a way that made Athelstan whine low in his throat.

“I had to go,” he managed to say before Ragnar kissed him again, sucking on his tongue and then biting gently at his lower lip.

“Tell me, next time,” Ragnar whispered, the roughness of his beard tempering the good work his mouth did, and Athelstan shivered as his hands made their way under the soft t shirt he wore. The calluses on the palm of Ragnar’s hands felt rough against the skin of his chest, and then he was distracted by the play of muscle he felt as Ragnar rolled them so he was pressed against the sheets, shirt up around his shoulders. “I want to have you,” Ragnar mouthed against his skin, and Athelstan could only say yes, even as the weight of what he was agreeing to hung over him. He pulled his shirt off, and then reached out to do the same to Ragnar’s threadbare sky-blue one. The muscle of him felt as good as it looked, he realised, running his hands along the strength of his shoulders. Ragnar made a noise of agreement, kissed him again, and Athelstan found himself without boxers, naked in his own bed. It terrified him for a second, but then they were kissing again, and Ragnar’s mouth was surprisingly gentle.

He seemed to understand that Athelstan would only be able to take so much in one day, because he didn’t remove his own clothes, though his dick was pressed hard against the fabric of his worn jeans in a way that Athelstan knew had to be painful. Heaven knew he’d been in similar situations when drunk and leaning against Ragnar as they sat beside a bonfire, the smell of his body and crisp night air clinging to Athelstan’s memory afterwards.

Ragnar ran the pads of his fingers slowly down Athelstan’s thighs and settled himself between them, the nest of blankets gone now; there was nowhere to hide from this, not anymore. He bent down and licked a long stripe along Athelstan’s cock as it lay hard against his stomach, and Athelstan couldn’t keep his eyes open. He could only arch into the feel of Ragnar’s mouth closing around the tip of his cock, his tongue flickering along the thick vein underneath. The sounds he made sent reverberations along Athelstan’s body. He clutched at Ragnar’s hair, distantly registering that one of the bands keeping the braids together broke under his grip, and bit back a moan when Ragnar tongued at his balls.

“Keep nothing back from me, Athelstan,” Ragnar told him, kissing the inside of his thigh, and kept on. His tongue was a work of pleasure, that wicked tongue that could be so good at persuasion, and Athelstan obeyed, letting the sounds he had kept back free. It was all he could do to keep from thrusting into Ragnar’s mouth, anyway, especially when he hummed around his cock. Slowly, Ragnar pulled off, then hushed Athelstan’s noises of protest with kisses, his hand replacing his mouth. He pumped Athelstan’s cock in a slow rhythm, thumb rubbing gently over the swollen head with every stroke.

“Please,” Athelstan said, his voice more feeling than sense. Ragnar bit his lip, his fist tightening, and Athelstan made a sound like a broken sob and came, spilling over Ragnar’s fingers. He couldn’t make his mouth work anymore, and just lay back on the pillow, letting Ragnar suck marks onto his neck.

After a few minutes, Athelstan pushed his fringe out of his face, trying to fight back a blush when Ragnar grinned and licked his fingers. He didn’t protest to another kiss, though the taste in Ragnar’s mouth wasn’t something he was used to. As always, the kiss went from gentle to rough in seconds, and Athelstan couldn’t help pulling their bodies together. He pressed a hand to the front of Ragnar’s jeans without thinking about it, and Ragnar flinched, swearing quietly. He made as to draw back, but Athelstan pulled insistently on the zip, trying to say with actions what he couldn’t with words.

“Oh, you’ll be my undoing,” Ragnar murmured, pressing a kiss to Athelstan’s forehead, but he took off his jeans anyway, and it was gratifying to see that despite his experience, Ragnar’s movements were almost clumsy. Athelstan had a moment of panic, realising he had no idea what to do, but then Ragnar was guiding their hands around his cock, one hand tight on Athelstan’s shoulder as they knelt together on the bed, and it didn’t take him long at all. Just a few strokes, and he buried his face against Athelstan’s neck, his body going tight. Athelstan could feel him shake as he came, could feel the noise of pleasure he made.

Next time, he thought, he wanted to see Ragnar’s expression.

 _Next time?_ His conscious mind was confused. _Yes, next time_ , the rest of him countered. He wanted that more than anything.

 

* * *

 

Lying in bed hours later, Ragnar reluctantly hunted through the pockets of his jacket for his phone. He dialled a number, and Athelstan froze as he heard Lagertha’s voice on the other end.

“I’m fine,” Ragnar said, after a minute of her talking, “Yes, I’m with Athelstan.” He grinned as the noise of Lagertha’s laughter filtered through, and winked at Athelstan. “Yes, I’ve despoiled him. I’ll bring him home for you to do the same later.” They spoke for a little longer, then hung up.

Athelstan covered his face with his hands. “Oh, come now,” chided Ragnar, “she’s not angry with you. She’s only angry she wasn’t here to enjoy it too. But I got here first.”

“I’m having a little difficulty – ” Athelstan searched for the right words, “ – dealing with this,” he finished, lamely, and sat up. Ragnar traced a finger down his spine, which didn’t help matters much, and then kissed down the line he’d drawn, which definitely didn’t help.

“You’re still angry with me?” he asked, eventually, and Athelstan huffed a sigh.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” he admitted.

“We’ll help you not to think,” offered Ragnar, and the suggestion was so completely  _Ragnar_ that Athelstan had to laugh.

He’d done so much thinking lately that it seemed quite reasonable, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

As midsummer approached, Lagertha invited him to her birthday gathering, which they held at the repaired family home. The wisteria was making a come-back, Athelstan noticed. Lagertha told him very honestly that she hadn’t thought of inviting him the year before because she hadn’t trusted him, and Athelstan was so surprised that he hardly knew how to react when she kissed him to soften her words.

“We trust you now, anyway,” she amended, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, and grinned. “You’ll stay the evening?”

It was almost a rhetorical question.

 

* * *

 

Sitting on the beach a few days later, with criminals and children alike, Athelstan allowed himself to think for a little while. He watched the waves crash along the beach, the sunlight glinting off the bikes parked up over the dunes, and grinned as Lagertha chased Gyda barefoot through the sand, both of them laughing. In the distance Bjorn was practicing boxing with Rollo, who’d brought his new girlfriend Siggy with him. Ragnar dozed in the afternoon sunlight next to him, their legs barely touching. The afternoon felt lazy and perfect.

“I always meant to ask,” Athelstan began, as he watched Ragnar, “what do you do for a living?”

Ragnar grinned, making the strand of long grass between his lips dance.

“I won at poker,” he said, eventually.

“Poker?” Athelstan couldn’t help feeling disappointed. “Isn’t that rather unpredictable?”

“Of course,” Ragnar shrugged, levering himself up onto his elbows to look Athelstan in the eye. “But we Lothbroks have a family motto: don’t go into a fight unless you know the odds are in your favour.”

“So you had a strategy to win? To get what you wanted?”

Ragnar gave that sly grin again, and tilted his head slightly to one side. “I always do.” He paused, eyes very bright, and flicked the grass stalk at Athelstan. “Why else do you think I kept following you around?”   

 

( ◊ )

**Author's Note:**

> oh man. i really meant to flesh this out a whole lot more, but i also didn't want to include all the shindiggery that happens in season 2 because i have been watching a bunch of other shows and i'm not on point with character development in that season. nor am i on point with character development at all! i probably forgot to include a whole lot of stuff that is important (i really wanted to put in a scene with them doing mushrooms but it just didn't work out). i am terrible, sorry bye. 
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://nexilis.tumblr.com/) if you're into that kind of thing. 
> 
> title lyrics from [numb](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epbqC138ll8) by cassie.


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